Belgrade, Montana was intentionally chosen as a location where Zoran and I will continue our separate trips. Zoran will continue to Calgary and I will ride to my final destination in Michigan. We have done something similar few years ago when we have separated in Chicago, you guess, in Beograd restaurant. It is almost a tradition in our trips to find places which are somewhat related to our roots. It is a kind of celebration of who we are and where we are coming from. After good coffee, breakfast in cafe Havana, and a big hug Zoran and I went our own ways.

Belgrade, Montana, sits just west of Bozeman.  It is nested in a valley in the shadow of the towering Bridger Mountains. It’s a town that represents the western frontier spirit, with wide-open skies and rugged but friendly terrain. Belgrade places you at the heart of Big Sky Country, a land that inspires reflection on freedom, adventure, and the enormity of nature.

As I have said in the introduction, on my way back to Detroit I will follow the route Robert Pirsig wrote about in his well known novel Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance. For me, the motorcycle pilgramage starts here in Belgrade, Montana. From Belgrade, U.S. Highway 191 connects you to Interstate 90 leading you eastward toward Billings. As you ride through the Gallatin Valley, the mountains rise and fall in the distance, and the air is thick with the promise of open road and adventure. The winding highways allow you to sink into the rhythm of the ride. The motorcycle becomes an extension of your body, and the journey itself becomes a meditation. Pirsig often spoke of the intimate connection between man and machine, and these early miles from Belgrade to Billings offer the perfect opportunity to embrace this philosophy.

Once you pass through Billings, the largest city in Montana, the landscape begins to change. The rugged peaks of the Rockies slowly fade into the distance, replaced by the rolling and fertile plains of eastern Montana. As the scenery changes, so too does the nature of your journey. While the mountains with their beauty demand your immediate attention, the plains open up space for deeper reflection and thought.

The highway between Billings and Miles City stretches for miles through the high desert plains, offering long stretches of road with few distractions. Riding through these plains, with nothing but the wind and the road, you begin to engage with your thoughts. The endless horizon invites your thoughts to come out, and the monotony of the plains encourages the mind to wander. The plains of South Dakota, with their wide sky, endless space and empty roads, create a feeling that time slows down. As I was approaching Lemmon, South Dakota I realized how tired I am. I was pleased that riding was done for the day. 

Located near the North Dakota border, Lemmon is a small town with a population of just over 1,000 people. It’s quiet streets and simple lifestyle make it the perfect destination for an overnight stay. The name “Lemmon” is not what you may think. Lemmon was founded in 1906 and named after the Lemmon family, prominent local settlers. The town quickly developed as a hub for agriculture, which remains a foundation of its economy today.

This little town surprises you with its content. The world  largeat wood petrified park is here. Petrified wood is a tree fossil, a wood that is turned into a stone. Petra in Greek language means stone.

All these stones used to be trees a few million years ago.

Lemon is a home of John Lopez, sculptor. He is famous for his welded iron sculptures. He is using scrap metal to create his sculptures and you can find his work in many places in South and North Dakota.

Sculpture of George Edward Lemmon, the founder of Lemmon, SD.

I left Lemmon early in the morning. My next stopover should be somewhere in Wisconsin, just past the Minneapolis and Minnesota-Wisconsin border. I will make a decision where I am going to stay overnight later in the day, depending on my progress. I continued to ride along Highway 12. Traveling long stretches of highway through rural America, the mind begins to settle into a rhythm that mirrors the pulse of the engine and the flow of the landscape.

Constant speed and hypnotizing landscape put you in a deep state of meditation. But not deep enough that I wasn’t able to see a great display of beautiful Volvo old-timers in the middle of South Dakota.  All of them look awesome, especially these three P1800.

After two encounters with local law enforcement and one speeding ticket, I crossed into Minnesota. Even though Minnesota is also  very agricultural it looks quite different then Dakotas. Everything is green here.

I didn’t stay for a long time on local roads. Very soon I reached the main highway. From now on I will stay on this type of road all the way to Detroit. When I reached Minneapolis, The Twin City, the Sun started to set down. It was already dark when I crossed to Wisconsin. First larger town in Wisconsin is Menomonie and I decided to stay there overnight. 

I didn’t rush in the morning. I left Menomonie around noon. During the last two days of this trip I will stay on major highways with no more than 4 hours riding per day. Major highways are not my favorite. It is a boring ride but you quikly clear the distance. In less than four hours I reached Mequon where I stayed overnight with friends. Next day, the last day of the trip, to avoid riding through the heavy traffic of Chicago, I boarded a ferry to cross Lake Michigan. This is a fast ferry that crosses a lake in two and a half hours traveling 85 miles to Muskegon, Michigan. Also it saves at least three hours.

Reaching Michigan was always special. Especially when you are coming from far away. Very soon I will be at home. The final three hours of my ride back to Detroit from the Pacific coast were bittersweet. With each mile, I felt the familiar rhythm of the road, the hum of the motorcycle, and the wind against my face. After thousands of miles, the journey was ending, and a quiet sorrow crept in. The landscapes I’d passed , mountains, deserts, ocean views, seemed to linger in my mind as vivid memories. A memory of a good company too. Approaching Detroit, I knew I’d carry the journey with me, yet I mourned the end of that freedom. The open roads are now just a memory. I have arrived.

S.